Photogenic
by AmenToTheMangaBible11
Summary: She wasn't the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, but she was flawless. Perfection in the eyes of an artist; in the eyes of a well-versed photographer. She was... What's the word... Photogenic.


This was a random idea I had that I actually thought was pretty cute. Hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.

* * *

I was never an artist growing up, but I definitely had an eye for art. The perfect critique, if you will. I knew when something was good, bad, or the perfect excuse for fire wood.

Of course, being an extremely attractive young man and one of the future heirs to the Uchiha family business, I'd never be able to share the extent of my knowledge of the art world, of my skills.

No, I'm not vain. Gees.

There are different types of art, and it supposedly comes down to an individual's perception of the art to say whether or not it's actually considered a masterpiece. That's a load of bull. Art is art, and it's undefinable, which is true, but it's not about an individual's opinion. It's about each type of art's definition. Paintings, whether oil, watercolor, acrylic, each has it's own standard. A simple painting, complex, everything is definable in my eyes.

Because again, I've always had the perfect eye for art. I just _know _what art is. Most people don't.

_She was art._

Growing up, I never had a steady enough hand to paint, or draw, or carve or sculpt. It's just not in me to hold something delicately and take something one sweep of the brush at a time. I just judge, people. This often included people. More often than not, in fact.

People were a complicated thing, but only a select few were masterful in design.

Handsome, I may be, I'm well aware I wasn't one of these people.

This goes for my best friend Naruto. He was one of those few people and, well, I chose him because of the way the sun reflected off of his hair, made his blue eyes shine, his tan skin practically glow. And before anyone asks, I'm not gay nor have I ever even considered it. It was just that artist's eye screwing with me.

I'm not gay, but never had a girl caught my eye either. There were always attractive girls, mind, but never one I considered a masterpiece. Typically, these beautiful girls had the incredible ability to damn near annoy the hell out of me without even opening their mouth. It was a talent really, a talent that kept these girls from being any kind of perfect art in my opinion.

Because, like art, people were a creation of passion. We were works of the utmost skill and devotion, but never had I found the one that I could consider the work of art I was looking for in life, and I'd become convinced that she didn't exist.

Or maybe I was just to particular. I wasn't art, looking to surround myself with the few who are. People always want better than they deserve.

Oh well.

Over the years, I discovered a form of art I actually had a talent for, because it didn't take too much effort and it was more than appreciative of my sharp eye.

The camera was a constant for me. It went everywhere with me, my palm always glued under the strap and my finger snapping at the button. I won awards, even for what I considered my most mediocre works. Sometimes I wish other people had my eye too, because then they wouldn't consider some of what they do to be beautiful. There'd be more effort to improve. Or at the very least, there'd be more recognition for the fact that they needed to improve. Humanity is complicated.

But anyways, I'm getting off topic.

I was an excellent photographer, even going so far as to be paid to take school pictures. Hundreds of faces passed before my lens that day and every other day just like it throughout my high school years, and typically I didn't even look at them aside from a quick glance from behind the lens. Except for her, that is. She had my attention in an instant.

She smiled gracefully at me, a gentle pink blush adorning her cheeks. I was gone instantaneously; so far gone.

_She was a masterpiece. _

Piercing blue eyes met my own darker ones that day, and I knew I was lost. Pale skin framed and contrasted by short, dark hair. Her face and body were feminine, yet the way she held herself... Somehow it was as if she was the most confident shy person alive. A simple white dress that flowed over her like the robe of an angel cascaded from the wide collar of her shoulders. Brown roman sandals laced up to her knees, the back of her curtaining dress careening down the back of the hard wooden stool that was before me. My lips parted and I raised my head from behind my namesake.

She looked at me in the most marvelous fashion and my heart stopped. The look in her eye as she watched me, my fingers curling around my camera, was intense. Examining me.

She took the generic 'school photo' pose for the camera, a look on her face that I felt only someone like her could pull off so naturally.

_She was my masterpiece. _

Click. Click. Click. I took so many pictures of her that day, more than I knew I'd need, but glancing over them again the moment she'd left, leaving a wake of serenity behind her, I was more than glad I had. She was what I'd been looking for. Art, a masterpiece. Words failed me. I knew they'd fail me every time I'd get the chance to glance at her.

I was dumbstruck.

She wasn't the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, but she was flawless. Perfection in the eyes of an artist; in the eyes of a well-versed photographer.

She was... What's the word...

**_Photogenic._**


End file.
